


premature burial

by leadbitter



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 05:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: His heart stopped in that moment, waiting for a flag or a whistle or something to rule out his fairytale moment, something symbolic that maybe he’ll use to sum up his career in his autobiography later on in life. Always on the verge, but never quite reached the top.





	premature burial

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like it sounds like im slagging off liverpool off in this but im genuinely not its more a general prem club thing
> 
> this is short and i havent done rickie justice and i probs shoulda spoken about southampton more but u know what i cannot be arsed

_May 2007_

 

_Sammy_. Little _fucking_ Sammy Igoe. Half the stretch of the new Wembley and then some on those legs, slotting it into an empty goal from the edge of the box and 30,000 specs in blue and white egging him on. Neil Ashton flat on his back, and part of Rickie felt sorry for him, but the larger, more overwhelming part of him slung his arm around Dizza and collapsed from sheer relief.

 

Rickie’s throat was sore from shouting, back in the dressing room (the first football league team in that room, and that had to be one to tell the grandkids) with Chris looking at him all wide eyes and flushed cheeks like - _we just got promoted, us, we did that_.

 

Rickie had already done his post-match and he was on his second cider and in that moment, he had almost felt untouchable. It was the adrenaline, he thought, why Stevie was dancing below the tv screen, tapping it wild - in bold letters _Bristol Rovers promoted_ \- and Rickie was still shaking. Rich sat down next to him, lines in his forehead.

 

“You look like you’re gonna throw up mate,” he said quietly.

 

“Ah - yeah it's just like we actually won - _We actually won mate_.”

 

“Its fucking mad init,” and his arm came around Rickie’s shoulders and laughed. He leant into it, warmth blooming in his chest beneath his medal. It’s only League Two - one day maybe it would’ve been the Champions League, but the harsh wind on Merseyside and Premier League cruelty had other ideas for him, smiting their own but spending millions on lads from Spain - but Rickie was alright with that, finally. The Mem cranked up to a fever pitch on a late February evening, banging the winner top corner in a local derby and that atmosphere burning brighter than even Anfield.

 

Someone had moved to stand in front of them. Rickie heard Sammy ask Lewis if he knew where the champagne was. Rickie had shut his eyes, watching the colours flicker on the inside of his eyelids. Lewis had laughed - uttered something about the West Country and the cider being in the corner somewhere.

 

Rich was taking swigs from a bottle, and Rickie could feel his throat bobbing above his head, the intimacy reminding him of his days at Macclesfield, when the goals didn’t flow as fluidly and he’d spend spare weekends back in his local in Kirkby.

 

Then Trolls was bursting through the door, uncharacteristically loud saying how much _i fucking love you lot_ and Stevie’s pointed out that he wasn't saying that after three months of the season. Laughter bubbled out of Rickie’s mouth; it was all pure and simple, like football distilled. All he’d ever known, and look at him now, in the changing room of the new Wembley and a play-off winner- albeit League Two.

 

Rich looked down at him with a fond expression on his face and Rickie felt the soft warmth spread from his heart to his toes; and even after coming on at Anfield, even after scoring on his England debut - when that final whistle went, Rickie thought he’d never had a feeling like it again.

 

  
_August 2013_

 

International football was so unlike anything Rickie had ever experienced before. Sat on the bench against Scotland, still a Southampton player then, he thought about Stockport. And Macclesfield and Rochdale and Rovers and Soton in League One.

 

And the Football League. So forgotten about, but Rickie knows where he would be without it - all it’s rough tackling and muddy pitches and camaraderie saved his dying career. When the Premier League throws their players onto the streets, the lower leagues take them into their arms and nurture them.

 

And, well, Rickie’s as big a success story as they come, so when Roy called him over from the touchline, the match tied at 2-2 on 67 minutes, he knew he had to make it come full circle.

 

And it did; a whipped in corner and a well placed header is all it takes for Rickie to smile for days on end. His heart stopped in that moment, waiting for a flag or a whistle or something to rule out his fairytale moment, something symbolic that maybe he’ll use to sum up his career in his autobiography later on in life. _Always on the verge, but never quite reached the top._

 

He spun around, acting on pure adrenaline, and sprinted off, Leighton’s arms around him first, gripping tightly as he spiralled drunkenly, everyone else joining them a few moments later, but that was just it.

 

A little boy from Kirkby on the pitch at Wembley (not for the Playoffs or the Johnstones Paint Trophy this time) in front of 80,000.

 

Just a boy who loved Liverpool, just not quite enough for them.

 

Rickie Lambert, the Football League’s finest product, with a winner for England and a grin that painted itself firmly on his face.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i just love rickie alrite
> 
> eve xx
> 
> tumblr: jordpickford


End file.
